


A Skeleton in the Closet

by LittleOne550 (transient)



Category: Doctor Who, Merlin (TV), Sherlock (TV), SuperWhoMerLock - Fandom, Supernatural
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Angst, Camelot, Crossover, Demonic Possession, Destiel - Freeform, Fluff, M/M, Other, TARDIS - Freeform, Time Travel, not my division
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-19 04:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transient/pseuds/LittleOne550
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a great man - and I think one day, if we're very very lucky - he might even be a good one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



 

* * *

_1 | Tempest in a Teacup_

* * *

 

"I'm sorry Sherlock, you're self centered, egotistical and just bloody annoying" John bottled out, all a mess of animosity and obscure frustration.

A hiss came from the corner. "Please, enlighten me John, with something I don't know." Sherlock rattled back. John was really falling back into old habits as of late, something Sherlock had obviously expected; the novelty of his miraculous return had soon worn off and neither Mrs. Hudson nor John had really thanked him for his act of attempted suicide nor the delusive broadcast of his so called identity.

 

Mrs. Hudson entered. "Are you two having a little domestic?" she repeated for yet another time. John turned and gave her a look of such apathy she almost dropped her tea.

"Again, I'm afraid" he replied with a tone of remorse.

After successfully finding a coaster on which to place her cup, Mrs. Hudson lifted her chin and sighed stiffly, settling her arms comfortably at her chest, one crossed neatly over the other. "Sherlock" she said with lament, " oh dear me, you really do cause a fuss!"

  
The lithe figure turned slowly at his hips, his dry lips were parted slightly and he wore a blank expression across his face; not the usual image one would picture when thinking of the great Sherlock Holmes, yet the man still managed to convey a sense of endearment and charm. His eyes were glazed as he spoke in hurried measure.

"My dear Mrs. Hudson, there is no need to worry, both John and I are perfectly capable of settling our many differences without your much unwanted aid."

John walked over to his landlady, fists fidgeting, and placed his hand softly on her back. "Sherlock" he hissed, "stop being so insensitive, she's trying to help which is more than I can say about you."

"It's fine, honestly!" Mrs. Hudson wailed. "I'll leave you both to it" and with that she patted the doctor on the arm and shuffled out of the room with her eyes to the floor.

  
“Sherlock!” John exclaimed. “Stop being such a idiot.”

Sherlock made an exasperated sound and dropped into the nearest chair with exaggerated dramatics, placing his hands together under his chin and resting his eyes closed.  
John looked around aimlessly. “That’s it, I’m going out.” He sounded despondent.

“Bring back a carton of milk would you dear?” Sherlock picked patronisingly without moving, but John was already out of the door, cross and coat-less.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

* * *

_2 | Me and my shadow_

* * *

 

It was almost eleven and, to Sherlock’s disgust, John had still not returned with the milk.  In an attempt to cure his intense boredom, he reached for John’s laptop, cranked it open and typed in the usual password.  John had obviously not forgiven him for their last argument, as the password had been changed leaving Sherlock aflame.

“Oh John, what is it like in your standard little brain, it must be so boring!” he said as he punched the letters ‘J’, ‘A’ and ‘M’ on the partially illuminated back lit keyboard.

Sherlock didn't particularly know why he was scrolling through John's blog site, which happened to be ironically named 'Deductively Detective' when he was, in fact a doctor.  Sherlock was the detective, a consulting detective; the only one in the world,  and he never let people forget it; neither did he like others stealing his title. Even John, who nobody would be interested in anyway.  Perhaps the reason he was straining his eyes trying to work out how to navigate John's blog was so that he could quote parts of his posts and use it as a weapon against him when he found himself arguing about different types of tobacco ash or something of less importance – which may I add, was most things in Sherlock's opinion.

John was simple and genuine, the archetypal 'every-man' although he did prove at times to be worth more than your average Tommy.  He knew Sherlock like the back of his hand, and trusted him – dare I say it, with his life.  

It was a bitter evening in London, however at that moment in time Sherlock wanted nothing more than to be summoned across London to Scotland Yard by the somewhat pedantic 'Greg' and be handed a case.  A bloody, twisted case with a lot of leg work, preferably.

He threw his head back. “Oh God!” he shouted with frustration. “Bored!”  His face caught the little light there was shining from the streetlights outside and caused his features to be illuminated.  His profile was magnificent, cheekbones sharp and poised, giving him a  captivating yet considerably unique appearance.

Jumping up, he threw the laptop to the floor and paced back and forth in front of the TV shaking his hands by his sides.

“I need a case, get me a case” he said with feeling.

Sherlock Holmes was not at his best when he had nothing to occupy him, one could say he was a man with the mind of a genius who never grew past childhood.  Standing quaking and vulnerable facing the door which John had left through hours ago, he was exactly 57% of the way though contemplating his options when he was suddenly thrown forward onto his front by an almighty force crashing through the windows behind him. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

_3 | Intruder Anon_

* * *

 

His hands shaking and mind wandering, John struggled with great difficulty to fit the key into the lock. At last, the lock clicked and he burst through the heavy front door.

“Sherlock” he called as he struggled up the stairs. “Look I know you’re awake, the lights are on”, he looked up and stopped where he stood, dropping everything he was holding to the floor as if it were a reflex he could not control.

“Oh Jesus Christ Sherlock.”

He looked around in an attempt to meet his friend’s gaze, which failed as Sherlock continued to sit on the chair where he was left with his eyes closed and hands supporting his chin.  
A blue glow came from the corner, lighting up his figure gently.

He looked cold.

“Sherlock, what the hell happened in here!” John exploded.

Sherlock stood up swiftly and started to move about in a relaxed fashion, despite walking barefooted on a floor scattered with fragments of the broken windows.

“Oh nothing to worry about John, this was actually... only to be expected, don’t you think?” said he in a monotonous drone, his voice separating syllables with sarcasm.

John stared in horror at Sherlock, mouth hanging open. He was hardly recognisable, with his face cut and black hair a mess. Starting to pick his way through the shards of glass. Despite feeling weak at the knees with shock, he managed to speak. "Please, Sherlock. What have you done?”

Sherlock looked him in the eye with such lustre and brilliance that John was rather taken aback and stopped advancing towards him altogether. “I’ve got a case, John!” his voice throbbed with excitement, and his face was a picture of true elation, like a child’s on Christmas day. “An actual case!”

John’s eyes shifted momentarily to the large body of blue that was stationed rather awkwardly in front of the TV.

“What...is that, Sherlock?” His voice threatening to crack.

Sherlock, still looking directly at John, replied. “It is in fact, as you can see John, a police box.”

The beginnings of a smile formed at his lips.

John turned to him and met his wide, frantic eyes. “Yes, well, I can see that. But the question is, what the hell is it doing in our living room!”.

Sherlock fixed his eyes just above John's, his expression neturalsing in an instant. “It flew in through the window.”

“It flew in. Through the window."

"Yes" Sherlock replied instantly, softening his gaze almost instentaneously and meeting John's disbelieving glare, chin held high with self accomplishment.

"Oh and I suppose Harry Potter has appeared in the chimney and is now drinking Butterbeer in the kitchen!" John retorted with a considerable amount of arm flailing.

Sherlock's eyes darted away, and moved back to wondering on John's forehead. Shrivelling up his nose, bitterness crawling on his tounge.

“I see you don't believe me. Of course, what would I expect”.

John half screamed, “Really Sherlock!” causing Sherlock to tare his eyes away from him and look at his own bare feet, toes scrunched in angst, jaw clenched.

“Oh, hello! Sorry, am I interrupting?”

Both John and Sherlock turned simultaneously. A look of horror and alarm flashed across John's face whilst Sherlock; a picture of painful fractiousness, began his slow advance towards the curious looking man.

“Sorry, I tend to do this a lot, don't mean to, it just seems to sort of – happen” the peculiar man continued, eyes flicking from John to his more considerably imposing companion.  "Honestly, didn't mean to butt in, I can go if you like” he blurted out, pointing back over his shoulder. He sank back towards the walls of the blue box in an attempt to retreat from the tall man's domineering presence.

“Who are you?”. Sherlock picked slowly at each word, emphasising his authority, causing the poor man's eyes to widen and colour go from his cheeks. Stepping closer, closing the gap between them to just a few centimetres he inquired again, softer and more welcoming this time. “What is your name?”

The man spoke softly, but with an unexpected dose of charisma.

 

“I'm The Doctor”


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

* * *

4 | A word in edge-ways

* * *

"Doesn't make sense." Sherlock blinked twice, feigning fortitude.

"What?" The man placed 'matter of factly', more of a weak, effortless statement than a question. Standing tall now, the man was at least 5''8, and Sherlock rather didn't approve of his fashion sense.

"You, The Doctor, _The_ Doctor, your name." Sherlock shifted his weight back and briskly placed his hands on his hips, he looked down at the man with an intrigued persona, eyes never leaving the other's. "It doesn't make _sense_.''

The raggedy man flicked his hair out of his eyes. "Oh, yes. I get that a lot." A cheeky smile drawing at his lips, showing his teeth teasingly.

Sherlock shifted his weight warily. "I think we all know that a man who gives himself such a undermining relinquishment as an epithet deserves to be respected, for all the wrong reasons of course."

"You don't trust me." The smaller man replied as he swayed from his toes to his heels, hands fixed loosely by the side pockets of his tweed jacket. "Well never mind!" He beamed as he stood on his toes to meet Sherlock's eye level. He looked down at Sherlock's chest, his eyes tracing the line of buttons down the centre of his shirt, a striking deep shade of purple. "Not many people do at first, it's a bit sad really" he croaked, patting Sherlock's chest twice. "And annoying" he said with a surprising dose of cheek, tilting his head playfully to the side, a huge grin lighting up his face as he met Sherlock's stunned gaze. The blood had all drained from Sherlock's cheeks, leaving him pale and cautious. The man who'd so quickly become aroused by the alighting of a new case had changed his tune more suddenly than was believable; one couldn't fathom why he was so affected by this quirky man's presence.

"I.." Sherlock began, stunned, eyes blue and skin blanched.

"Oh, you don't like me" the man teased. His voice raised, with striking affection. A feigned look of anguish spread across his face. Jaw jutted out. He even went as far to deliver a slight pout. Realising he'd left his hands resting on the man's chest, he drew them back immediately, fingers retracted and flicking slightly. He pulled a face, drawing his lips back and feigning disgust, clicking his tongue.

"I told you I'm The Doctor." He said with imperceivable annoyance, his words folding out as if they were lined up in front of him like a row of dominoes. He flicked the first. "Me, here, now." He said, shaking his hands towards Sherlock and then back at himself, in a subconscious attempt to convey the spoken word more efficiently.

"I am..The Doctor. The. Doctor." He recited, eyes darting across the space between them, across Sherlock's shoulders. "Doctor who?, Doctor what?, The Doctor, that's me, hello!" He waved then, he reached out and waved at Sherlock Holmes, just centimetres away from his face.

A squeak came from the corner. The shorter man darted quickly to the left whilst Sherlock stayed facing him, eyes curiously tracing his face, then darting to his bow tie.

"Excuse me, sorry to interrupt but what the hell is happening here" John said breathlessly, his face had turned frighteningly pale, only to be accentuated further by the terrible lighting, which was just the small blue glow emanating from the sides of the blue box. The stranger pushed past Sherlock gently, but with exaggeration, swaying to the side being careful not to knock the purple shirted man. Sherlock turned.

"You're wearing a bow tie" he picked.

"Bow ties are cool!" the quirk of a man replied instinctively, turning, hands held comfortably at chest height. He winked at Sherlock and swayed back around and continued to the other man. It seemed as though he covered the room in just a few strides, he walked around as if he owned the place.

"Oh, and who are you?" he inquired as he reached John. He pushed his face forward, so very close to him, almost as if he had no idea that a thing such as personal space even existed.

"John. John Watson" the horrified man replied quietly. His eyes had darkened. His moth was open slightly, showing of his disbelief and general nihilism of the whole appearance of this strange man and his glowing blue box.

The raggedy man shot back, and his face suddenly bare host to the widest grin possible as he opened his arms becomingly. "Dr John Watson!" he cheered, voice high with excitement, his eyes shining and adoring. He reached forward and brought him into a tight hug. John didn't reciprocate however, he was still rather shocked by the whole series of events. He kept his hands by his sides, balled into fists. He looked at Sherlock with wide, vulnerable eyes over the odd man's shoulder as he started to push himself away from his body and wiggle his way out of the hug. With wild movements, The Doctor turned and held his arms towards the other.  "And you're the great Sherlock Holmes, the one and only Consulting Detective!" His voice was filled with such adoration and voice magnified with brilliance and flattery, that Sherlock found it quietly beautiful.

"Oh God, he reads the blog" John said with frustration as he looked over to Sherlock with disbelief. Sherlock's eyes darted to The Doctor. There was still a comfortable amount distance between their bodies, as he'd fortunately remained by John.

"No, there's something more, there is something abnormal yet incredibly familiar about you Doctor. Why do you insist we call you Doctor? I mean it's obvious you're not a surgeon, or even a general practitioner judging by the clothes you're wearing. You walk with such blundering awareness and acknowledgement for everything around you, but you chose to act like a child. You're scared then, possibly scared of what is out there in the dark, the torments, the demons haunting your past. More likely though, the reason you act so incredibly incapable is because you're frightened of yourself, of what you've done or what you know you will do if pushed. You're frightened of what you're capable of, your power. Which tells me that either way, if you're a genuine threat or just sickeningly egotistical, you Doctor are a very dangerous man. Am I wrong?"

Silence fell.

The Doctor stood, with his head tilted down, gently nodding in agreement with Sherlock's accurate analysis. Bringing his eyes up to Sherlock, it was suddenly so easy to see his deep dejection and quiet, resting fury.

"Familiar" he muttered.

A sudden, unsermountable dose of rage left The Doctor standing just inches from Sherlock's face. He calmed, but spoke with traces of disgust, head stupidly close to the other.

"Do you always judge people on their _clothes_?"


End file.
